"They took the tree down," said the boy. "That's how he found the path."
Silas scowled at him.
Intrigued, Falcon said quickly, "Don't worry. I'm no informer." He glanced around the "cave" curiously. Ling had led him to a narrow path winding through woodland and a tangle of briers and overgrown shrubs. The path sloped downward and they'd come to a fast-moving stream and followed along its banks until it veered off to the east and disappeared from sight. The path was little more than a rough defile; a gloomy place, slippery underfoot and shut in by trees and sheer banks and littered with chunks of rock. Ling had pushed through a thick curtain of vines and threaded his way among crumbling ruined walls to a massive half-open door which he'd closed after they passed through. They'd followed a glow to a wide room lit by a torch that blazed in a wall brazier. Ling's "cave." Most probably the cellar of some long-abandoned castle or priory.
Silas had turned from a rough table and run to greet them. He was a different man from the unkempt individual Falcon had met in the fields beyond the Foundling Hospital; his garments neat and new, his wig tidy, and the beery flush gone from his clean-shaven cheeks.
Andante whickered, and Silas said with a grin, "Fetch the nag this way, sir, and we'll look after him while the boy sets out some ale. I'll tell yer straight though, we daren't stay but a few minutes."
They crossed the room and came to a narrow passage wreathed with cobwebs. It was chill and damp, and Andante's hoofbeats were loud on the flagged floor and echoed from the stone walls. An outer door gave onto a small crumbling sort of lean-to that had been converted into a makeshift stable with two troughs, one half full of water.
"This is where me friend, Tom, keeps his nag," confided Silas, as Falcon unsaddled the stallion. "He wouldn't like it if he knowed you'd come here, him being always just half a leap ahead o' the Constables, y'see."
They started to rub down the horse with handfuls of straw. Falcon asked, "How did he find the place? I'd think it would stay hidden for eternity."
"I wouldn't tell none but yerself, Mr. Falcon, and I'll ask yer to keep it under yer chap-ho, as the Frenchies say."
"You've my word. Go on."
"Well, the fact is, Tom—that's not his real name—were runnin', and he fell down the cut by chance, and hid here, safe as a bird. It were a fine place fer a Gentleman o' the Road, and Tom's lived here ever since. On and orf. And now and then."
"Until they take the tree down," murmured Falcon shrewdly.
Silas glanced at him from the corner of his eye, and went over to pour oats into the second trough, to which Andante proceeded without delay.
When they returned to the main room Ling had put out tin cups and a jug for the men, and a cup of milk for himself, and was carrying over a thick plate with some hunks of bread and cheese.
Silas grumbled that there was no time to eat. "You know we gotta be away 'fore it's full dark."
Ling said pleadingly, "It won't take a minute, and Edw'd's got to be fed, you know."
"Oh, all right," muttered Silas. "Sit y'self down, sir."
The boy grinned and ran off.
Seating himself at the table, Falcon accepted a piece of the bread and asked, "Why must you be away before dark?"
Ling galloped back to deposit a small cage on the table. "Here's my Edw'd! See?"
Falcon saw, turned perfectly white, and was across the room in one leap.
Silas howled with laughter. "Strike me pink if ever I see a cove move's'quick! It's no bigger'n my thumb! It won't bite yer, sir!"
"He's a very nice mouse," said Ling earnestly. "And I've taught him manners, ain't I, Silas?"
"Yus, you have, boy. But you'd best take him over there and shove a bit o' cheese in his box for him, if he upsets our guest."
Not until the pet had been taken to the farthest shelf did Falcon venture back to his chair.
"Lor'," exclaimed Silas, still grinning. "I'd never've thought a grand fighting man like you would be scared of—"
"Well—I'm not," lied Falcon. "That is to say, I don't like them. They—ah, they carry disease, 'tis said." He was vastly annoyed to see his hand tremble as he reached for his ale, and he asked again, "Why must you get away from here before dark?"
The big man sobered, and looked uneasily at the boy. "You bin good to us, Mr. Falcon, and I owes yer, but—"
"Yes. You do. And now I need your help. Desperately." He leaned forward. "I give you my word of honour, I'll never betray you, or your friendly rank rider. But if you care anything for England, tell me all you know about this place."
"Cor!" gasped Silas, banging a clenched fist on the table and setting the mugs jumping. "So that's the way of it! I knowed there was something nasty goin' on up at the Abbey!"
Seething with impatience, Falcon said, "The tree. That has something to do with the business, no?"
"I reckon it do, sir. All's quiet here most of the time, but every few weeks—more often lately—a gamekeeper, leastwise he's dressed like a gamekeeper, he comes and takes the tree down. You likely see it lyin' 'longside the cut?"
"I saw a fallen tree, but I don't think it had been chopped down, and—"
"It ain't, sir."
"It's in a tub, Mr. Falcon," put in the boy excitedly. "They—"
"Now you finish yer milk and go and get the rest o' your things put in the bag," said Silas, fixing him with a stern look. Ling obeyed reluctantly. Silas passed the cheese and said softly, "It don't do fer the boy to know too much, sir. Just in case."
Falcon nodded. "The tree normally blocks the path, is that it? And periodically 'tis pulled down so that riders can pass?"
"Aye, sir. Not riders, though. Most times they come by boat till the river turns off, then they walk through the cut. Arter dark, always. I dunno where from, but they're masked and go so secret-like that I guessed they was up to no good! Tom, he knows how to fight, and he's no coward, but this lot, they scare him silly. He says 'spite o' their masks, they're all flash coves, and flash coves can do murder and no questions asked. He's got it in his head that his life wouldn't be worth a bent groat if they found him here, or any of us. If that tree's down when he comes home from his—er, night's work, he goes to earth somewhere else! Quick and quiet!"
Falcon felt triumphant. He said, "I wonder they would take it down in the daylight."
"They never do, sir. Only once before, when it was foggy, like it is today." He drew a battered timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and held it up to the light. "Lor' a'mighty! 'Tis past four, Mr. Falcon! We gotta get outta this! You can tell me what—"
Ling ran to them, his face pale and frightened. "They're coming! Listen!"
Falcon sprinted to the front door. Silas rushed to take down the burning torch and stuff it into a nearby bucket of water. Groping his way through the dark toward the outer path, Falcon heard the footsteps of at least three men. He saw the gleam of a lantern bobbing along from the left, and he drew back and stood very still.
His hand was grasped and behind him Silas hissed, "Quick! If they see us, we're dead as mutton!"
Falcon pulled free. "I must find out where they go! Wait!"
Someone stumbled on the path, and swore in a growl of a voice that was unmistakeable. Falcon's heart gave a leap of excitement. Hibbard Green!
Peering through the vines he was able to make out three figures following a fourth man, a tall individual, who carried the lantern. They were all cloaked, with hoods drawn close, and masks covering their faces. The bulky individual would be Lord Green. The one behind him was almost as heavily built, while the last man was short and slight. So they did meet at Sundial Abbey! Or under it! Scarcely daring to believe his good fortune, Falcon decided to follow, and make sure of where they went, but then he must get out fast, for he had no desire to act the fool and risk being caught by six ruthless men who had announced their intention to murder him.
"Wait up, Squire! We can't see the lantern back here!"
Another familiar voice, and as the fifth conspirator passed wit
hin a yard of him Falcon thought, "Rudolph Bracksby! No surprise there!"
The leader halted and said irritably, "Not so loud! D'ye want to be overheard?"
So that was the voice of the infamous Squire! Cold, deadly, authoritative. And unknown.
Hibbard Green gave a snort of derision. "By whom? The owls? I'll warrant there's not a soul for miles around save for the doddling earl's minions, and they're likely too boozy to—"
"We survive by leaving nothing to chance. Where's Ruby?"
"Making fast the boat. One of the oars nigh drifted off."
"Then he must find his own way. He should know it by now. Come. We waste time!"
Off they went again.
Falcon turned back and whispered urgently, "I must follow them a short—Silas?… Ling?" His whispered words seemed to hang on the air. Dismayed by the sense that he was completely alone, he crept back to the inner room, and tried again. "Silas?… Dammitall, I need you! Never say you've gone scurrying off like a scared rabbit?"
Not a sound. Not a breath of movement. And there was not a second to lose. Swearing under his breath, he eased his sword in the scabbard and retraced his steps to the curtain of vines. The faint glow of dusk was almost gone now, the gloom in this brooding place making it impossible to see clearly for more than a few yards. He stood head down, straining his ears, and was able to detect soft footsteps, but the sounds were to his right, not the left. Which meant that either one of the larger group was returning, or that "Ruby" had already passed by en route to join them.
It was a desperate dilemma and his life the forfeit if he erred, but, "Nothing ventured…" he murmured, and gathering his cloak tightly around him moved swiftly to the right.
The air was much colder now that the sun was gone, but the fog had lifted somewhat. The footsteps were closer. His hand slipped to the hilt of his sword. If one of the bastards was coming toward him, he'd have to move fast. And then he saw something moving just ahead. Luck was with him; the traitor was following his friends, not coming back this way. Abruptly, the ground to his right fell away sharply. He could hear water again, and guessed that the river had curved once more and ran past the bottom of the slope.
A moment later he saw light emanating from what he at first thought to be a low window, but then realized was a partly open door at the foot of a flight of steps leading down to a cellar. It must be their entrance to the abbey. He paused. In which case, thank heaven, this was as far as he need go.
He turned to retreat. A large hare hopped across the path, caught sight of him and was gone with a flurry of leaves and twigs. "Damn!" he thought, and slipped into the trees.
Clearly suspicious, "Ruby" spun around and came back. If he shouted, or fired a shot, the game would be up.
The traitor's hand dropped toward his pocket. Falcon dared not wait. Pistol upraised, he sprang and struck hard and true. "Ruby" uttered a choking grunt and went down to lie in an unmoving and ungainly sprawl.
Falcon's eyes darted to the stone steps and the faint light from that lower doorway. There was no one in sight. Their meeting place, of course, might be some distance away. A building this old and this vast was very likely riddled with secret rooms and passages. He frowned. They would soon miss Ruby, and by the time a search party arrived and found the right room, the Squire and his cronies could have scattered and there would be small chance of surprising them again. On the other hand, he was here. He might be able to get close enough to overhear their plans, and he had been provided with the perfect disguise to enable him to bluff his way if he was caught. And he owed it to poor Jamie to at least try to do the thing properly.
He took off his cloak and flung it aside, then tore open his victim's cloak, revealing a tall trim figure clad in a habit of rich mulberry velvet. The wrong size and shape for General Underhill, whom he'd strongly suspected. Which left his second choice. He rolled the man over, removed the cloak and whipped it about his own shoulders leaving the hood hanging back. Luckily, they were much of a size. The fellow wore a full head mask, with holes cut for eyes, and the mask hanging loosely to the lips. Falcon raised the heavy head and seized the top of the mask. "Your grand unveiling, Sir Villainy," he whispered. "And if you're not Gideon's papa-in-law, I'm a—"
The light words died as he pulled off the mask.
He did not look upon the haughty, handsome features of Simon Ordway Lutonville, Earl of Collington, and father of Naomi Lutonville Rossiter. He gazed instead at the last man he had expected to see. The last man he would have wished to see. And, painfully stricken, he whispered, "Oh, my dear God!… Kade!"
The shock was so great that for a moment he was motionless, gazing in miserable disbelief at Hector, Lord Kadenworthy, who had never looked upon the "half-breed" with disdain; who had seconded him in his duel with Gideon, and agreed to perform the same office in the duel with Jamie. Who had even treated him with kindness after that tragedy, when everyone else had turned their backs on him. Kade, who had once risked his life to help a Jacobite fugitive escape, although the man was not a close friend. Good old Kade, sharp-tongued and sarcastic—no more so than he himself—a sportsman to the core, a man of principle whose honour was beyond question. With his great wealth, his social position, his several estates, his obsession with horses and the new race meeting at Epsom, why on earth would he—
"Ruby… ?" the voice was a distant howl. "Close the damn door!"
Falcon abandoned pointless conjecture and regret, dragged the mask over his own head, and pulled the hood of his cloak close about his face. There was no time to bind Kadenworthy, but he dragged the limp form to the bank and prepared to roll it over, restraining himself at the last instant so as to search frenziedly through his lordship's clothing. He found the tiny jewelled figure in a waistcoat pocket; pink jade set with five glittering rubies. He slipped it into his own pocket. Murmuring, "I'm truly sorry, but you brought it on yourself, old fellow!" he shoved the unconscious man over the edge of the bank and watched that ever more rapid tumble until Kadenworthy was lost to sight. He heard the splash, and winced, but perhaps such a death was the best way out of this ghastly situation.
Springing up he raced to the crumbling stone steps and started down. Someone was coming. He threw up a hand, affecting to be dazzled by the dim light.
The hooded figure stamping toward him snarled, "For Lord's sake what have you been about? You know the Squire don't take kindly to being kept waiting. Tonight, of all nights! Close the damned door!"
Not waiting for a response, he went back the way he had come.
Falcon, his nerves quivering with excitement, slammed the door shut but took the precaution of opening it wide again before he followed.
Just inside, a candle burned on a stone bench. It threw a very small circle of light, but he took it up gratefully as he pursued the disappearing individual he believed to be Lord Hibbard Green.
He was in a wide hall, a place of pitchy darkness and clammy cold. The cellar of the original Sundial Abbey, no doubt, of which the home of The Dancing Master was probably a part. The air was musty, the silence absolute save for Green's fading footsteps. He was obliged to run when the candlelight he followed vanished. His haste almost brought disaster; Green had turned a corner and Falcon found himself teetering at the edge of a steep flight of steps winding downward. Panting, as he regained his balance, he sprinted to catch up and almost collided with Green who had turned another corner and stopped to throw open a door.
His chance to slip away was gone. There they were; the other four hooded and masked gentlemen of treason, sitting at a table that appeared to date from the construction of the room, and staring at him.
'Treed, by the Lord Harry!" he thought, and wondered how the devil he was to get out of this.
"What a'God's name ails you?" bellowed Green.
Falcon snatched out his handkerchief and sneezed. "This curst cold," he moaned.
"You said nothing of it in the boat," said the man at the head of the table, his tone sharp with annoyance.
>
"Seems t'be getting worse." Falcon's gaze raked the cold bare room. It was furnished only with a massive and ancient credenza, six chairs, and the table, in the center of which another lighted candle struck sparkles from the five jewelled miniatures, one set in front of each man. He had expected something more grand, yet in a macabre fashion it was appropriate that here, in this musty darkness, hooded and cloaked, trusting not even each other, the League of Jewelled Men spun the webs that brought death and destruction to so many.
The short member with the topaz studded miniature before him said, "Then be good enough to turn your head from me."
Falcon grunted. This end of the table was closest to the outer door, which Green had closed but not locked. If he had to make a dash for it, this position might give him some slight advantage.
Green took his place which luckily left only one chair unoccupied. Falcon drew it farther from Topaz and sat down. Silence. Eyes glinted at him through the slots of masks. He was supposed to do something. "Jupiter! My token!" he thought, and hurriedly retrieved it and set it up in front of him.
The silence was unbroken. Still, they all watched him.
Panicky, he thought, "Now what?" and sneezed again, this time involuntarily, and with such force that he blew out his candle.
The man at the head of the table said dryly, "You took your time."
This must be the mighty Squire. Evidently "Ruby" had been expected to extinguish his candle upon entering the room. Relieved, he shrugged in a gesture of helplessness and apology.
The Squire said, "Our last meeting in this place, gentlemen! Our long years of waiting are almost done!"
Cheers and much shouting and back-pounding.
It occurred to Falcon that if this was their last meeting, they might decide to unmask, in which case he would have to get out very fast indeed. He could blow out the candle with another sneeze, and be through the door before—
The Mandarin of Mayfair Page 24